


a place called home

by SnowStormSkies



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Band Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hugs, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Through it all, through everything, there is always Georg. From the very beginning, to the bitter end, and beyond, there will always be a need for Georg. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Written for a prompt for the FQF by <b>Hexenhasel.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	a place called home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt: 50. Georg/TH - Georg is a cuddle-slut, and the other TH members take advantage of it. They will go to Georg whenever they need a hug or cuddle. He's just that affectionate. Story about pairing off Georg with each member, when they cuddle and how it makes that member feel, and how Georg feels. (can be Gen) — prompt by **hexenhasel**

 

 

**_a place called home_ **

****

**_In the beginning..._ **

Gustav has always known that Georg is a cuddler.

Right from the very, very, very, very beginning when they met in school and he’d been… lost, he’d learnt it. It hadn’t been a very easy introduction: a new school, new people, his mother had just left him because she had to get to work, and he’d clutched his book bag and tried not to look too scared, but he… kind of was. He’d been seven. Before him had been a seething mass of children and he had known _none_ of them. He’d moved schools because his father had switched jobs, and he’d left behind friends, teachers, and his drum tutor. At seven, it had been the end of the world. He had tried not to cry.

And then Georg had turned up.

And hugged him.

Like, right there, middle of the playground, hug around his shoulders, and Gustav had then been pulled off to go for a game of football. Seriously. No warning, _no hi, my name is...._ , and _do you want to play together…_ Just a hug and _I’m Georg!_ Before being put in wing defence and told the fate of the break time chocolate depended on him. He’d never even gotten to tell Georg his _name_.

They’d lost, but Georg hadn’t minded – he’d hugged Gustav again, shoved him off towards a lady in all purple, told him that was his teacher, her name was Mrs Bolen, and that Georg would come and find him at break time because Gustav was _cool_. Gustav was, as a general rule, not cool. A year younger than Georg, he was midget sized, with a bad attitude towards most of the population even as young as he was, and had a strong preference for staying inside for break. He did not _hang out_ with the cool kids. He read books and did his homework and played drums and enjoyed a small circle of friends numbering precisely _two_.

By the end of the week, Georg had convinced him to play football _every single break time_.

It was strange. Georg was laid-back as fuck usually – he played goalie for a reason, and it was because he didn’t have to move that much – but he was just… touchy feely. Seriously.

It didn’t change as they got older. Georg thought absolutely nothing of slinging an arm around Gustav’s shoulder, high fiving him, giving him a hug when things just weren’t going well. Even as they approached and then got into teenagehood when touching between guys was supposed to be _gay_ and _weird_ , Georg never stopped.

And it never was weird.

It was… nice. A Georg hug could be any number of different things. It could be reassurance. It could be comfort. It could be Georg trying to say, _I’m your friend, and I want you to know that…_ and Gustav wasn’t quite sure why Georg needed a hug to say that, but he did. So that was that. But Georg didn’t hug like anyone else Gustav knew….Georg didn’t hold hands like when Julianna hugged him, or pet his hair like when his mother hugged him. It was always a very firm, very solid hug, and then a pat on the back and then moving on.

It was easy to understand why he was the way he was, though. Mrs Listing - _Call me Heidi, Gustav!_ – was _also_ touchy feely and huggy, and she saw nothing wrong with scruffing Gustav’s hair when she met him for the first time, or patting him on the shoulder, or even giving him a hug. Georg just grinned and asked for more juice.

Six months after they first met, the first sleepover weekend spat Gustav out the other side feeling like he’d been through a very cuddly wash cycle and left to dry on the washing line. Sitting in his bedroom on Sunday evening, he’d been almost shell-shocked. It was very different to the Shafer household, very open, very affectionate, and very informal. It wasn’t to say Gustav’s family were unaffectionate, but it was like going from nought to sixty in point one seconds. It gradually got easier – having hugs on tap was something Gustav rather enjoyed, and over time, he realised that it wasn’t just about him. _Georg_ liked giving hugs. They made him feel close to people, made him feel like he was giving more than just words and meaningless attempts to comfort them.

Nothing, but nothing, was better than a proper hug in Georg’s world.

Gustav’s okay with it. Hugs are nice, and when they were eight hundred or even two thousand miles from home, in a tiny tour bus or alone in a hotel room far from parents and family and familiar places, Georg became that familiar place for him. Not too often – Gustav has some _fucking dignity_ , but just sometimes, when it gets to him… he goes to Georg, and he gets a hug, and it tides him over.

Just enough, that’s all he needs.

 

 

**_Two halves of a whole...._ **

****

Georg full and freely admits he is the touchy feely person in the band. It’s something he’s come to appreciate about himself, even considers it a strength. It takes a lot to be the person who people go to for comfort and reassurance physically.

But it took awhile to get used to. And learning to get used to the twins… that was … _interesting_. Gustav was easy to get used to. Don’t ask, just shove him in the deep end, and that’s exactly what Georg did. Now, Gustav appreciates the hugs, and Georg likes giving them. A fair and equally balanced relationship, that.

The twins on the other hand… They didn’t mind hugs, but they never initiated them, really, except on very special occasions. Like when they were signed for the first time, and then again the second time, and their first award, but admittedly they probably would have all hugged lampposts at that point just out of sheer joy. But on a day to day basis? Not really that touchy feely, Bill and Tom. Georg spent a long time trying to figure out just where the comfort lines were.

Until the twins brought the comfort lines to him, that was.

They’d been about thirteen and Georg about fifteen, and on their first full time visit to the studio. Usually, Bill and Tom were dropped off by Simone or Gordon in the morning, and picked up again later that night, every day during the holidays and at weekends. But David had encouraged them to try it out by sleeping over, to see if they could cope that way, and after some convincing of parents, the entire band moved into the flat for the two week holiday.

The first two days had been fun as all hell – they’d stayed up late, ate stupid amounts of junk food, and watched crap films until twenty past dumb in the morning. But on about day three, when David and the others were really starting to put them to work, really pushing them, and it wasn’t just a holiday anymore because they had work to do and schoolwork to blaze through and music sheets to learn by heart, that’s when homesickness set in for everybody.

Georg was mostly okay. He’d done camping trips and holidays with school, and he wasn’t that fussed about being away from home, and neither was Gustav. They coped, and they had mobile phones to call their parents with. But the twins were looking more mopey by the hour, and by the time dinner was over and ten o’clock rolled around, they’d gone off to bed without a word.

Only to come into Georg and Gustav’s room at quarter to three in the morning.

Georg had been woken up by Bill and Tom’s arguing over who was going to wake him up, ironically enough. After floundering his way out of the covers, he’d asked what was wrong, and even though the twins had shrugged, it was plain to see on their faces and in their body language. Homesick as fuck. Bill had been crying, and Tom – though he’d never, ever, ever under pain of fucking death admit it – had been too. They were standing so close they looked like one person with two heads, Bill holding onto Tom’s pyjama top that matched his own, and they were both biting their lips.

And that’s when he learnt that _true_ Kaulitz cuddles came in two parts – one called Tom and the other called Bill. They’d both launched themselves at him and ended up sort of sobbing messily into his shoulders, and Gustav’s expression of fury at being woken up the middle of the night only subsided when he saw what was happening. Long fingers wound into Georg’s tatty band shirt that served as nightwear with his grey boxers, and as he hugged both twins, he told them _it would be fine, they just had to get used to it, it was okay…_

By morning, both twins were sleeping on either side of him, Bill possessively clutching his right arm, Tom curled around his left, and it was… admittedly not the most comfortable night’s sleep Georg had ever had, and he’d camped in the Black Forest on bare ground before, but it was nice. The twins came to him for comfort, and reassurance and he was happy to provide it.

They were both kind of adorable when they slept, but Georg would never admit it. Unless he wanted to get one over on the twins.

Still. Kicking them both out of bed to catch up on the last hour before David came to get them up was sweet.

 

**_Catch me when I fall...._ **

****

Georg learnt to take it up a grade when they were on tour though.

His hugs were in _chronic_ demand during the first go around of Europe, by the entire band. Gustav needed them because it was tiring being around so many people and so many fucking cameras and mics all day, and he got so stressed out over living ass to elbow with everybody that a hug was the only thing keeping him from lashing out sometimes.

Tom needed them because they were far from home, and he wasn’t okay with living with so many people, and he wasn’t completely okay on stage either and the tension was so fucking high…

Bill needed hugs because he fought with Tom. Simple. As. He was perfectly content getting his hug quota from his brother – and Georg suspects that’s less just a twin thing and more of a little brother thing, really – and that was okay with Georg.

Seriously. One less person to worry about.

But when Bill and Tom had a fight, and Christ those two could fight like pro-wrestlers when they wanted to, throwing kicks and punches like there was no tomorrow – and Bill had stormed off, swearing that he _wished he was an only fucking child, Tom, because then you would never have fucking existed!_ Georg had to step up to the plate and bring them back around.

And Bill needed a hug.

He always did need one, always, always, but _always_ after a fight with Tom. Georg would follow in Bill’s furious wake, just padding behind and letting Bill go where he wanted until either he couldn’t walk anymore, or there was just no where else to go. And then it would begin. It started off with Bill sitting on the bench, or the couch, or the floor even, and Georg sitting next to him. Not too close, mind, just close enough for him to notice and to know that Georg wasn’t just passing through, and then they’d wait. And wait some more. They might even wait for upwards of an hour or so while Bill frothed and fizzed and muttered to himself, and rationalised his wish for Tom to drop off the end of the earth, and Georg nodded quietly, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

That was very important, or he could be seen as stepping into a twin fight which was… a bad idea. Very bad. Very, very, very bad.

But after a while, Bill would sidle over. And then again. And then again, just a few inches at a time, until he was pressed against Georg’s side, aligned thigh to thigh, pressing his chin into Georg’s shoulder. Only when Bill touched Georg’s arm, though, could Georg return the favour. If he moved too soon, Bill would just back up and it would start all over again.

It was like hugging a slightly spiky gibbon, Georg thinks, and it still is now. Bill is and was all arms and legs, and he saw nothing wrong with physically wrapping himself around Georg, as close as he could get, and even now that he’s grown to six foot plus and is _all_ muscle, he doesn’t care. He needed the closeness, the physical contact, more than the words that Georg still let out. Always has been Bill’s thing, and it always will be. He’s a very, very, very strange but affectionate person like that.

 

 

**_In the darkness, a single light..._ **

****

When Bill lost his voice, Georg’s hugs became a lifeline for the band.

Nobody knew what was going on. Nobody was telling them anything. Nobody _had_ any idea how they were going to make it work, but there was a huge expectation that they would.

It started so slowly - Bill had been a bit unwell, slightly feverish, a little under the weather, and then, _**bam**_.

When nobody was expecting it, when the doctor had given Bill the all clear to perform, it had happened and taken their entire career down the toilet, or so it felt. Mid-concert, Bill’s voice had blown, and he’d not been able to carry on. They were thousands of miles from Germany and the specialist Bill needed to see. They were without parental support, and only had David and Dunja and Natalie to try to fit inadequately – through no fault of their own – into those roles.

Georg had held Gustav together, as the twins tried very hard to do the same to each other. But it didn’t really work. Bill **had** to fly home. He had no choice – his voice could be on the verge of dying completely, and the band, the label, the management wouldn’t risk it. But he had to go alone – everybody hoped the tour would continue, he’d be given drugs, and they’d wind everything up in a few weeks’ time, and they’d manage to save the months of hard work and the millions of euros worth of concerts that were riding on Bill’s voice and their instruments.

But they hadn’t. About two hours before they’d been about to go onstage, David had given them the bad news. _Surgery. Voice therapy. Drugs. Weeks of voice rest. Downtime for the whole band._ And that was it. The rest of the tour up in smoke, and a lot of money down the drain to boot.

Even worse than that, it wasn’t left up to a press conference or a message from the management to tell the fans that they’d spent money and time and effort coming to this place – some fuckwit at the top of the pile decided that it had to come from the band. _No, not the band._ It had to come from _Tom_. Fucking upper management trying to fix things up with a touch of paint when they should have been putting out the wildfires with the reporters.

After facing the screaming girls, and the disappointment and everything else that standing on that stage threw at them, Georg didn’t think he had anything else left in his system. He was so tired, he could have planted himself on the bed and died, but he knew – _knew_ –that Tom needed him. And he was right. Half an hour after crash landing back in their hotel rooms for one last night of sleep before the plane home, Georg had had a knock at his door.

Tom arrived.

And so did Georg’s hug.

It wasn’t something they talked about, but there was no fronting, no trying to be brave and bold and fucking slick like Tom normally aimed for. (Albeit missing slick by about a hundred miles). Instead, he’d stayed close to Georg, not talking, not crying but just wrapped around him, allowing himself to be held close. Georg knew that Tom wasn’t just worried - he was petrified. There could be complications, there could be devastating side effects, there was a very real chance Bill could die during the surgery.

And Tom was not by his side.

David had vetoed Tom’s return with Bill, and so had everybody in charge, but watching the twins try to separate that night, Bill trying to talk and Tom trying to shush him to protect what little voice he had left... It was horrible. Felt like watching a train crash in slow motion because he knew Tom was trying to be strong for Bill, he knew he was.

But who would be strong for Tom?

Georg would.

That was his role right now. Tom’s head buried in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped around him, the duvet over their shoulders, it’s all trying to give Tom comfort and support and reassurance. It’s also... because Georg feels like he let one twin slip through his fingers a bit. He should have been more focused on Bill, given him some more hugs, let him know that he could come to Georg with anything.

But now he holds Tom very close, and in the darkness of the room, he whispers a prayer.

That night was one of the longest nights of Georg’s life. They didn’t sleep. They just held each other, for hours, building hope against hope that the morning would bring better news.

 

 

_**The long farewell....is never long enough....** _

__

The twins are leaving. Or rather, the twins are running away. Or even, the twins are escaping. Georg doesn’t know where to begin with the name, but the basic fact was, the twins are going away from here, away from Germany, away from their family and their friends, and their fucking hellhole of a home that they’d bought with such high hopes.

Away from Georg and Gustav.

Logically, Georg understands why.

It’s reached crisis point. The stalking, the paparazzi, the threats, and the lack of privacy, it wasn’t just getting to the twins, it’s needling under their skin, into their dreams, into their home.

Break-ins. Tom’s assault charge. Bill’s car accident. Their mother being harassed and intimidated by Les Afghans. Nowhere was safe for the twins – not in Germany at least, and they were shattering under the pressure.

And nobody could stop it. Bill and Tom had always relied on a support network of Georg, Gustav, and their immediate producers, managers, handlers, and _staff_. Gradually though, that became a smaller and smaller circle as the twins withdrew more and more into themselves and into their home, until they finally – after days of secret talks behind closed doors, and hasty meetings in the studio – admitted they were thinking of leaving.

That was two months ago.

The private plane flies out in two days. The twins have boxed up their possessions, sold their furniture, sent the cars to be shipped, or stored, and put the house up for sale. It’s real. It’s happening. Georg knew it was coming – something had to break, and the twins are the weak link in their chain – but he just never expected it to feel… so raw.

Georg and Gustav won’t be flying with them.

For them, Germany is still home, and they know that the pressure will die off once the twins leave and people realise they’re not coming back. They have family here, and friends, too many ties and connections they aren’t willing to stretch or break by flying off to lands unknown. Or you know. Kind of known. LA isn’t so strange but it’s a _long way_ from Germany.

The band needs downtime, they realise that after months of tension building from years of living on top of each other on tour and in the studio. Creatively, they are exhausted. As a band, they’re on the verge of collapse. As friends, they’re struggling to fit comfortably in each other’s lives, stuck between living in each other’s pockets and not seeing, talking, or communicating with each other for days. They don’t know how to be _people_ anymore. Gustav needs space and time to put down roots to grow because he’s just a drifter now, Georg is getting serious with his girlfriend who doesn’t want a boyfriend who’s only ever on the end of a Skype link, Bill is craving new lands, more freedom and new inspiration, and Tom… Tom is the weakest link of all.

The assault on the bitch that put a cigarette out on his car wasn’t the first sign of the fractures inside of himself, but it was the most public, and the cracks are still widening. The stress is causing him to withdraw into himself, insomnia and stress turning him into a paranoid, overwrought shadow of himself, swinging between apathetic lows and aggressive highs. He’s on anti-depressants, anti-anxiety medications, sleeping pills, everything the doctor could throw at him, but it’s not really helping.

Bill says that Tom’s always up all hours of the night, pacing, and standing at the windows in the dark, looking for people trying to break in, even though there’s a new alarm and security to check on it twice a night.

And so the twins are jettisoning off for LA and David’s place out there while they try to find their feet again.

And Georg and Gustav must remain behind.

Tonight, they’re all together – the last time they will be for several months, probably closer to half a year or more. Georg invited them all over, his girlfriend staying over at a friend’s, pizza ordered, beer brought.

It’s strange. The first part of the evening is like a party almost, a strange, almost manic thrill running through them. They need to laugh, joke, talk, reminisce. Share.

But later, after the last beer is drunk, and the pizza boxes stacked in the kitchen, they lay on the blow-up mattresses in the living room, and the thrill faded. The need to talk faded. The need to _be_ increased.

It’s strange how they end up just all curled around each other, but Georg can’t think of a better way to say goodbye to the twins. Wrapped around each other, Gustav and Georg holding the twins like bookends, hands holding onto shirts and wrists and arms, and legs intertwining, it’s physically as close as they can get. Tom rests his head in the crook of Bill’s shoulder, and he cries. Bill wipes his own eyes, streaming mascara and eyeliner everywhere, and Gustav doesn’t look up from where he’s staring intently at the wall, tears running down his cheeks.

They’ve said it’s not the end; it’s not a break-up of the band. It’ll be okay, Bill tries to reassure everybody. It is just a … a hiatus. A temporary thing.

It sure as fuck doesn’t feel all that temporary. It doesn’t feel okay.

But Georg hugs them all, and he tries to keep it together. He’s got to be strong now. He’s got to be.

 

 

_**The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step....** _

__

Years.

It’s been fucking years.

Days and days and months and months and oh, so fucking long, but they’re back.

Tom grins at him over the table, his face a little rounder than Georg remembers, bearded and his dreads and cornrows replaced by a pony tail. The baby fangs he’s always had are still the same though and Georg takes comfort in knowing that. Not everything has changed about Tom. About the twins. Bill stands by the window, long blonde hair catching Georg’s eye, his braces tapping on his jeans as he turns. He looks older now, but in a different way than before. He’s calmer, more settled. Just as full of bizarre ideas and weird thoughts, but he’s less… frenetic. Less desperate to get everything out there and only half done before something else catches his attention.

LA has been a godsend for the twins, in all honesty.

And it’s not done too badly for Georg and Gustav either, which both did and did not surprise him.

He knew things would change, but he never realised just how much. He proposed to his girlfriend. They picked out their first house together – _here_. In Germany. They got a dog – even if it is a tiny little fuzzball of a thing rather than the big loping Rottie Georg would have preferred. His mother semi retired. Georg finished his masters in psychology, and picked up an OU course in social sciences. He brought a new car - another BMW because he likes the brand – but a really good one.

He also built a deck for the garden. _That_ was fucking brilliance in and of itself, not least because he’d started it in April, and not finished it until August. Not to mention the seven weeks he spent in plaster because he dropped the fucking hammer on his foot, broke three bones and fractured two toes in the bargain. So DIY wasn’t his thing. He learnt that too.

Gustav found himself a girlfriend. And then a boyfriend, and then a girlfriend, then a boyfriend, and currently, he’s between relationships but he’s… he’s happy. He’s finally fitting where he wanted to, and Georg is so fucking pleased for him. Learning to deal with his own sexuality, that was something Gustav had never really done because there was no _time_ , and having a crisis of where you wanted to put your dick – and everything else that came with that – on tour was not the best idea.

But since the twins left, there had been nothing but time and that plus a bit of therapy and a lot of soul searching has led Gustav to the right place for him. Where he wants to be, you know? He’s brought a house too – a few streets away from Georg’s, and they have dinner together a few times a week, just catching up. Just being good friends. Gustav picked up writing for a magazine under a fake name too, doing articles on driving and reviewing cars, so he’s been keeping busy.

But it always felt… like life wasn’t moving forward so much as sideways. Georg has been tied to this band for over a decade – God, that’s a long time – and it feels like his life is now and has always been connected to how well – or not, as the case may be – the band is doing. And now, they’re doing really fucking well.

Gustav rolls his chair closer to the table, and scoops up the dummy album.

It’s finished.

It’s finally fucking finished.

Their latest album is ready to go into production. The long process of writing lyrics, recording them, writing music, recording that, photo shoots for the inserts and posters and billboards, and design meetings and merchandising arrangements, and forms and videos and just… _everything_. It’s all done. All that hard work for months after the dry months of hiatus, and it’s produced this.

Their _second_ debut album, Jost likes to call it. New sounds, new vocals, new instruments – it’s everything _Humanoid_ was supposed to be and more.

“Are we good?” Bill asks, and Tom reaches under the glass table, where Georg seems him stroking Winston’s ears. Not legally a therapy dog but something close. The German Shorthair seems to serve the same function though, and Tom’s _a lot_ calmer since he started being able to take his baby boy around with him as an anxiety reduction animal. He gives Tom a lot of reassurance when he starts getting nervous.

“I am.” Gustav nods, and Georg fists bumps him. They’re back together again, and the wheels of the mammoth juggernaut that is Tokio Hotel are starting to pick up pace again.

Of course they’re good. “Me too.” He grins at Bill, and if the wide smile he gets in return sends his belly doing backflips because he knows that’s the one where Bill is about to sign off on shit, he doesn’t let on.

“Then I think we’re ready.” Bill claps his hands – there’s the dork inside, Georg thinks because he’s not just clapping, he’s _flutterclapping_ – and Tom cheers, and Gustav’s little smirk comes to bear and that’s the cue.

He stands up, and they all come towards him – Bill and Tom and Gustav, all at once, wrapping themselves around him and it’s like…

It’s like _coming home._

Home for Georg has never been in a house or in a flat, or in the studio or the bus. It’s always been in someone’s arms, in their smell, the feeling of their arms wrapped around him and his around them.

Bill’s arms are stronger than they used to be, and Tom’s are too, and Gustav’s just as solid as he ever was, and it’s perfect. Georg knows – he knows so fucking much – that _this_ is why he came back to the band, to the music. His friends. His fucking _family_.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So. What did you think? :D


End file.
